


Sugared Violets

by lea_hazel



Series: Decline and Fall [17]
Category: Seven Kingdoms: The Princess Problem (Visual Novel)
Genre: Birthday Party, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Fashion & Couture, Infidelity, Mind Games, Poor Life Choices, smart girls making dumb decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-03-01 13:45:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18801532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lea_hazel/pseuds/lea_hazel
Summary: All the world knew that the King of Revaire always did as he liked, except on the Queen's birthday.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one will likely have two chapters of setup before the payoff.

The end of the social season in Starfall City was marked by two last, grand events: the Queen's birthday and the first day of summer. Both these took place within days of each other, and the preparations were intense. Everyone who was anyone expected to get the double invitation, embossed in scrolling gold script, and would immediately set upon the mercers and jewelers and dressmakers, to ensure that they were shown to best advantage. Some of the young ladies at court would forgo many of the season's other entertainments, solely to be able to afford two distinct costumes for these two highly prized events. Many invitations were tendered during the season's end balls, and many proposals of marriage were foreshadowed.

On the previous year's occasion, Queen Violetta had been resigned to accepting a markedly modest celebration, in the absence of the two royal children. The Prince and Princess had not returned until after the season was sealed, and the great families had retreated to their country estates to escape the ill humors of the capital city under the summer's beating sun. After the winter spectacle of the royal wedding, however, the Queen was more than ready to place herself firmly back in the center of attention. No expense was spared in preparing the birthday feast or decorating for the ball that followed.

Both events, naturally, must make use of the larger and more luxurious halls of the new palace. For Verity, this meant relocating from her usual bedroom in the Old Palace to a spacious, airy and well-lit suite in the new palace's stately guest wing. It was a disruption of her carefully cultivated routine, but Verity was hardly complaining. The new palace was teeming with activity at all hours, and she had a very fine view to keep up with events, as harried servants milled about the corridors, and merchants overladen with wares crowded the receiving rooms. The senior staff had their hands full arranging for the transportation of sacks of white sugar and veritable mountains of fresh-cut violets, very nearly out of season.

Verity herself spent a great many hours at last-minute fittings for two lavish new ballgowns, accompanied by Gisette, on the very same mission.

"Mother insists upon it," said Gisette to Verity, when the latter crinkled her nose at the sight of the fabrics laid out on the table before them.

"White?" she asked again. "Are you certain?"

"White or violet," said Gisette firmly. "All a part of the theme. Try the apple-blossom white, you might find it suits you."

"I'm not accustomed to wearing colors so pale," said Verity.

"If Her Highness pleases," the merchant before them piped up, "the right shade of white can flatter any complexion."

She looked at the merchant's earnest, dark eyes, glanced back down at the silks and laces, then turned to her left to find her seamstress waiting on her patiently, hands clasped before her.

"What do you think, Sylve?" she asked.

"Apple blossom might suit, Your Highness," said Sylve, "or the almond, or ivory. Especially if we might liven it up with a gold ribbon trim." She cast her eyes in Gisette's general direction.

"See, sister?" said Gisette sweetly. "All things can be managed, with a little patient decorum. And for the Summerseve ball, you can wear whatever garish color you please, with nary a word of criticism from myself or anyone."

"The spruce green taffeta," said Verity immediately, training her gaze back on the merchant. "You still have it, don't you?"

The woman murmured assent.

"Perfect," said Verity. "With that settled, I think we have time to go and do, oh, _anything_ else before dinner."

Gisette laughed brightly. "How silly you are, making such a fuss about the dresses when you'd rather be anywhere else. What entertainment would you fancy, sister? A ride in the park, or perhaps a picnic in the gardens?"

"I believe Lady Roxana has threatened to invite us both to afternoon tea today," said Verity. "It would be most disobliging to promise our presence and then renege, even if no written invitation was issued."

"Indeed," said Gisette. "A verbal contract must be honored, and I believe you can expect your _dear_ friend, the ambassador's wife, to be in attendance as well."

"With her recent guests from Corval, if I recall rightly," agreed Verity. "I'd quite like to make their acquaintance."

"Then we shall waste no time," said Gisette, "in allowing you to achieve that introduction."

* * *

 

On the day of the violet ball, Verity gave Petra and the younger maids the afternoon off and settled down to try and get some rest herself. Normally she wasn't one for sleeping during the day, but she had every expectation of the festivities lasting well past midnight, and she had no desire to be seen wilting like a cut flower midway through an elaborate waltz. Her patience for feverish day-and-night-round activity had expired after seven weeks on Vail Isle. She would take whatever advantage was offered to her, even if it was as slim as an hour or two lying down in the afternoon.

When Verity woke, late afternoon sunlight was slanting in through the broad windows, bathing the western half of the room in gold. The sheaves of light fell over the small, ornately carved wooden desk that perched under the window, and she decided she might as well make the best of the last hours of light. Petra would return soon enough, to help her dress for the ball. Meanwhile, she still had unfinished letters to write. Intriguing news had reached her from the Imperial City, cleverly concealed in the wrapping foil of her favorite chocolates, and she had a burning need to discuss the developments with Constance, who always knew more of the inner court's gossip than she let on.

She was concentrating so intensely on her writing that she heard nary a creak of a sound when the door across from the desk swung open, revealing a hitherto unknown doorway. Fortunately, she had already capped her ink-bottle, otherwise she was certain that her small startlement would have knocked it over, flooding her carefully-composed letter and soaking into the bleached white wood of the desk's surface. With as close a pretense of nonchalance as she could muster, she scattered sand over the sheets of paper.

"I had no idea there was a door there," said Verity, not looking up from her busy hands.

"There are back corridors linking all the rooms on this floor," replied Hyperion. "The servants use them when they want to remain unseen. The openings are hidden behind tapestries and the like, so as not to disturb the guests."

"And here I thought I had just been treated to the sight of an uncommonly old-fashioned mythological scene," said Verity. "What brings His Majesty to my room on this evening? I would have expected you to be far too busy for the likes of me."

He stepped into the room and approached her, towering over the small desk and blocking most of the remaining light from the window.

"I thought I told you more than once, little princess," he said, " _I do what I like_."

All the world knew that the King of Revaire always did as he liked, except on the Queen's birthday.

"You're in my light," said Verity.

Not bothering to wait for his response, she stood up and picked up a taper, making for the low-burning fireplace to light it. Hyperion was having none of it, though. He immediately shifted to block her path, before she got so much as two steps away. Taking one step further, he closed in, crowding her against the edge of the little desk.

"I need light to write by," she pointed out, she thought, quite reasonably.

"Do you always write letters in your underthings?" he asked. "Who are you writing to, anyway?"

He reached for the desk behind her, and Verity felt a swell of rage mixed with panic at the thought of him reading her correspondence. Hyperion, however, blithely ignored the scattered papers and instead picked up her letter opener, twisting it this way and that, examining it from every angle. He tested the edge of the blade against his thumb and whistled.

"Rather a sharp piece of equipment to use for merely opening letters," he remarked.

"I do receive a great deal of correspondence," said Verity, "as you can see."

"Is it written on clay tablets?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Corvali paper is very heavy," she replied. "And it was a gift. From the Princess of Skalt."

"Ah," he said. "That explains it all. You've no business carrying around a knife this sharp. You could stab a man through the heart with this, Verity."

"Don't tempt me," she muttered.

He heard her, of course, but only laughed. Flipping the knife around to hold it by the blade, he slid the mother-of-pearl handle under her chin, to tilt up her head.

"Haven't you got somewhere to be?" she asked again.

"Kingly duties," he replied. "I'll be rather busy tonight, you know, but I wanted to make sure you didn't forget that I'll be keeping my eye on you, too."

Muffled sounds from beyond the shut door signaled someone's presence in the antechamber, likely Petra returned to dress her for the night.

Hyperion took a half-step back. "And that you knew about this doorway, of course," he said. "And now I really must be gone."

He pressed the letter-opener flat against her chest and she fumbled to catch hold of it, as he stepped back and disappeared back from whence he'd entered. Verity sighed as she set the blade down on her desk with a loud click. It was galling that he could so easily ruffle her feathers just by entering her room when she least expected it.

"Did you rest for the evening's festivities, milady?" asked Petra, shutting the bedroom door behind her.

Verity sighed again. "In a manner of speaking," she said.

Though she'd been sound asleep no more than an hour ago, she didn't feel at all well-rested.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Queen's birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some suggestive language and so on, but the action is still relegated to the final chapter.

The ball that night was everything that a ball could possibly be. The great hall that the palace stewards called the "Moonstone Ballroom" glittered under the light of silvered candelabras stocked with absurdly many candles, throwing the vast space into a light unnaturally bright for so late in the evening. The air was sickly sweet, heavily perfumed by hundreds of cut flowers. They must have cost half the treasury to locate and transport. Into all this fulsome grandeur poured, through the wide-open doors, only the richest and most well-connected of high society, and the most _unfalteringly_ loyal. The crowd glittered like skittering jewel beetles.

Violetta was in raptures.

No one but him would know it to look at her, of course. Only he could recognize the true violent depth of her emotions, when to all else she presented a cool and aloof facade. Aided, this fine evening, by a gown of lustrous wine-colored silk and a truly obscene quantity of diamonds. There was nothing on earth that she loved so much as playing Queen Bee, and presiding over this noisome display of excess was a dream come true. He could see it in the way her eyes gleamed, and the slight but perceptible tilt of her head.

"I hope you're enjoying yourself," he said, when they had greeted the last of the really significant dukes and so on.

"I am," she replied, still wearing her small, perfectly composed smile.

"It's no more than you deserve, of course," he said.

"Don't placate me, Hyperion," she said, coolly. "I already got what I wanted."

"That you did."

Violetta surveyed the ballroom with the cool elegance of one who knows herself to be the mistress of all she sees before her. If it was enough to keep her temper sweet, or at least manageable, for the next year, he would have gladly spent twice the gold. He doubted his taxmen felt similarly, though. They still had the rest of summer to disappoint him. For now, all was right with the world. Dinner had been satisfactory, his enemies were scattered or in hiding, and his wife was sitting by his side, her ungloved hand resting lightly over his.

"The last of the guests are entering," said Violetta. "When the doors are closed..."

"Yes," said Hyperion, who knew exactly what she was getting at. "You'll get your dance, don't worry. If you try to adjust my collar, though, I'm leaving."

The Queen of Revaire laughed, loudly and warmly enough to startle several nearby guests, who quickly hid their astonished miens. He would wager they'd never expected the Queen was even _capable_ of such a laugh. After all, he knew her reputation almost as well as his own. If anyone could make her do it, though, it was him. Especially once he'd softened her up with enough diamonds and trinkets. If he kept his cool through the evening, he would wake up tomorrow with the same loving and adoring wife he'd married twenty-some years ago. And really, he didn't care how difficult she was with other men, so long as she always came back to him.

When the footmen shut the great winged doors, he leaned over and whispered, "Leave the children with the nursemaids tonight, darling."

She glanced at him sidelong, her eyes bright and blue as jewels, and smiled a knife-thin smile. "Worried about them, are you, now? No need to concern yourself. Have a look. They're just over there." And she tipped her chin slightly in the direction of the doors.

Before he could think better of it, he glanced in the direction she indicated. There was Gisette, glittering like her mother in an entanglement of gossamer silver and pale pink, gliding through the crowd that separated before her, for all the world like a general on the battlefield, despite her diminutive height. And there, not far from her, was his useless son, dressed like a gentleman but slouching like a surly adolescent. Glaring at everything around him as if he could will the mingling guests to burst into flames purely by the power of his irrational resentment.

And there, leaning on his arm, was Verity.

She was dressed just as stupidly as the rest, in a confection made of piles of lace and white satin, shimmering and liquid in the rich lamplight. Far from the buttoned-up dresses he saw her in every day, this one had a neckline almost obscenely low which exposed an unreasonable volume of her shoulders and back, all the way up to her softly curved neck. The bodice looked like it might slip off with a good tug. Her skin glowed with a deep, golden undertone. She was smiling a bright, sugary smile, that he instantly knew as false, the same polite nonsense she was always spouting in company. He liked it better when she was vulgar and shameless, speaking in a way that he knew she reserved just for him.

Like earlier that day, when she had so sweetly threatened to stab him. He almost would have enjoyed it if she'd tried. Of course, then he would have had to hang her, or something, and that would have been such a terrible waste.

As he was watching her with the utmost intent, her cloying facade slipped just slightly, and she stumbled over the hem of her skirt, darting a panicked look here and there. Jarrod scowled and pulled on her arm without turning to look at her, but Verity's gaze slid over her husband and rose to meet his, just for a moment. Just for a moment, her mouth opened, and he imagined the hitch in her breath that he was too far away to hear.

Violetta's hand tightened over his.

"Useless boy," he said, his muttered words descending into a low growl despite himself.

"You promised me a dance," she said.

"I did," he agreed, and rose to offer her his hand.

Hyperion regarded her more closely than he had before, from the height of all their shared years on the throne. She did not look like a woman who'd just turned forty three. She was beautiful, and no one could deny it. She wore her power as Queen as comfortably as she did any of her infernal dresses, and if anything, was often happy to try and grasp at more of _his_ power. He knew that she would rule by his side to the bitter end, if it came to it. And that she hated him, but only sometimes.

With these thoughts in mind, he pulled her close as though to dance, and murmured in her ear, "How long has it been, Violetta? I think I might have forgotten how you taste."

He was satisfied to note the stain of pink crawling slowly up her neck and over her face.

"Long enough," said his wife. "You're not getting out of the dance."

"Damn it."

He swept her out to the ballroom floor all the same, and the mingling crowd scattered before them like autumn leaves. She was more pliant to his suggestions than usual, and less cold. She let him hold her closer than was rightly proper, and whisper obscenities in her ear every so often, though she didn't react again so warmly as she had the first time.

"Would you like to make a scandal, my Queen?" he asked her. "Flirt and carry on like a courting sixteen-year-old, right here in the middle of this crowd?"

"One dance is all I asked for," she struck back, "and even that is too much for you to offer without trying to take it back."

"When have I ever given you anything that you didn't get to keep?" he asked.

She smoothed her hand over his chest, her long, delicate fingers drawing trails through the heavy velvet. "I wanted your heart," she said simply. "I don't, anymore."

"You could have any heart in this room," he said, "if it's body parts you're interested in."

"The boys here are too cowardly to dance with their queen. I'll leave them to the younger girls," said Violetta. "I'm content to watch from my throne, for now, while you go and do whatever it is that you do at these events. Find Darius, whisper in his ear about conspiracies afoot."

"Truly?" asked Hyperion.

"Just remember," she said, smiling again, "that you're mine for the rest of the night."

He grazed his mouth over her ear in the lightest of kisses. "Or I could fuck you until you scream," he whispered, "right here in the middle of the crowd."

Violetta laughed. "Your tricks don't work on me anymore, Hyperion," she said. "I'm not that eighteen-year-old girl that you--"

"Seduced?" he offered.

"Not the word I was reaching for, no," she replied. "Take me back, now."

He led her back to the dais and she settled on her gilded throne, looking all the more regal for the fire of exertion that warmed her pale face. Diamonds glittered in her hair, piled and sculpted into a towering construction as elaborate as any single piece of the new palace's extravagant architecture. He would enjoy taking it apart, later on. Violetta was always at her most interesting when she'd been stripped of her armor, her golden hair falling free over her bare shoulders. Like that first night, when she'd promised him a son and he swore that he would make her Queen.

"Go on, then," she said, though she resisted making any unseemly shooing motions.

As he circled through the crowd, enjoying the casual flinches of guests who got too near him without noticing, he caught another glimpse of Jarrod and Verity. The little princess had evidently been more successful in corralling her husband, enough for a second dance. Or maybe Jarrod had a weaker will than his father. That seemed the likelier theory to him, given that the boy had been nothing but a series of disappointments for him, for years now. Her ample skirts spread out becomingly, taking up even more space as she slipped through the steps of a needlessly complicated dance. Bystanders stared and whispered. It was common knowledge that the Crown Prince's marriage was unloving, but young girls would be jealous, nonetheless, of the girl who'd been chosen.

She caught his eye again, even more briefly, as the dance was drawing to a close. The boy walked her to her seat, as proper as anything, then slunk away to drink and gossip with his age-mates. Hyperion ignored them both and kept his hands locked behind his back, circumambulating the room's perimeter at a leisurely pace. Gossip was noxious stuff, but he had to keep alert to it all the same. It had too much information to be discarded, and he couldn't trust anyone but himself to figure out which bits were important, and what was chaff to discard. He had no need, for example, to dwell on whatever fresh young court beauty his feckless son was now dispossessing of her virtue.

He was much more interested to note what the other young men did, especially those who had been absent from the social season. Loyalty was not to be taken for granted, and if some young man who'd just got a hold of his title was too frightened to look his sovereign in the eye, that was an issue that he would need to force. He'd already decided how he planned to allot his summer traveling, but there was always time for last-minute course corrections. The element of surprise might even act in his favor.

"Papa."

Distraction was likely to be a fatal mistake, even if it was in the security of his own fortress. And even if the ambush he'd inadvertently fallen into was by his own daughter.

"What is it, Gisette?" he asked, his eyes still skimming the crowd of dancers. "Please don't tell me that you've run out of dance partners so soon in the evening."

Gisette laughed her condescending little laugh. "Of course not, Papa," she said, withdrawing her hand from his arm. "It's Verity, actually. I'm afraid Jarrod has been a very disobliging husband, and abandoned her in favor of some of his gambling friends."

Hyperion immediately perked up at the sound of that. " _Gambling_?" he demanded. "I thought I raised him to be smarter than that."

Gisette laughed again. "Really, Papa," she said.

He sighed, but was forced to concede the point. "Well, what of it?" he asked.

"Verity hasn't anyone to dance with," said Gisette.

"What's it to me?" he asked. "Get one of your gentlemen callers to make her an offer. You have my permission to offer him a kiss in exchange."

Hyperion knew quite well that his daughter would kiss anyone she liked, with or without his permission.

"I was hoping _you_ would dance with her," said Gisette.

That made him stop in his tracks, and his daughter very nearly collided with his back. Instead she made a graceful little twirl and came to a stop standing just before him. In his path, even.

"What did you say?"

Gisette sighed theatrically. "I'm afraid our _dear_ Crown Princess still finds you rather intimidating. I thought perhaps if you treated her to a dance, it would put her at ease." She batted her eyelashes in a way that could only work on the greenest of boys. "Please, Papa?"

_Intimidating_? The very thought was laughable.

The next thought he had, however, gave him pause. He matched Gisette's sigh with his own, and said, "Very well, daughter, if it will silence you on the subject I suppose I could try." He turned his head left and right. "Where is she, then?"

Gisette took his arm and led him to the sidelines, where Verity was perched very properly on a spindly chair with a glass of wine in her hands. She tipped her head to hear one of her companions over the din, still unaware of his approach. He liked to watch her at her ease, before she knew he was there, and pinpoint the exact moment when she noticed his presence, when her whole body stiffened, racked by dueling fear and lust.

"Here we are, Papa," said Gisette, smiling as smugly as the cat that killed the canary.

"Princess," he said, and watched the wave of desire crash over her at the sound of his voice, like a crumbling brick wall.

She rose and curtsied. "Your Majesty," she said, but her eyes watched him from under her lowered lashes, instead of being fixed on the tips of her shoes like a proper girl would.

He held out his open hand to her. It took a moment or two for her to register the gesture and its meaning, but when she did her eyes grew wide and dark.

"Go on, Verity," said Gisette, still with her smug smile firmly in place. "It's only one dance."

Hyperion drew her out by the hand, almost unresisting, onto the crowded ballroom floor. He placed his hand low on her waistline, as much to hold her at a distance as to keep a firm grip on her, lest she run away from him and melt into the milling crowd. Her other hand he clasped in his own, wrapping it completely in his fingers. Sadly, she was wearing gloves, the silly Arlish ones that had come into fashion, which climbed all the way past her elbow and looked more like errant sleeves. When she rested her free hand on his arm, he could finally spin her into the motions of the dance, and watch her lacy skirts swirl around his legs.

Verity's lips moved, but her voice was too soft for him to hear, though he was almost certain he could see her lips form the words _I'm going to kill her_.

He ran his thumb over the smooth satin of her bodice. "I see you're wearing one of your ludicrous corsets."

"They're in style," she said automatically.

"Waste of a perfectly good pair of hips, if you ask me," he replied.

He knew exactly whose waifish figure all the girls at court were trying to emulate. He just wanted to be sure that she knew it, too.

"Your opinion is duly noted," said Verity blandly, but her face looked a little warmer than before.

"I hear you find me intimidating, Verity," said Hyperion.

"What, exactly, is your objective here?" she asked in retort.

If he could send her to bed that night dripping wet and thinking of him, he would count it a win. He would keep that part to himself, though.

"My daughter is under the impression that I haven't sufficiently welcomed you into the family," he said instead.

"If I admit to being sufficiently welcome," asked Verity, "will you let me go?"

"Go where?" he asked sharply, suddenly curious.

"Go and finish my wine and my conversation," she said. "I've been introduced to some very interesting Corvali visitors, and I believe they might bring me news of my family, if I press them."

He'd almost forgotten the Corvali widow was also King Kadmus's daughter, though apparently by a different mother.

"Then we both have urgent business to conduct," he said. "In that case, I'll release you to yours if you release me to mine."

"This travesty was not my idea," she reminded him. "I was quite content in my seat on the sidelines. I hate dancing."

How interesting. "I did promise to keep an eye on you, however," he said, "and to put you more at ease. Do try not to flinch when I enter a room, Verity. It seems to have given Gisette some passing strange ideas."

"Strange ideas are fine," she said, very softly, "so long as they're _incorrect_ ones."

She wasn't wrong, but Hyperion frowned all the same. "Try to stay calm, Verity," he commanded. "There are enemies of the throne afoot and I don't have time to cushion your anxieties."

Verity smiled blandly. "The dance is ending. I hope Your Majesty enjoys the rest of his evening."

With those final words, she detached from him and floated away on a cloud of frothy white lace. He tamped down on the urge to shred that lace like so much tissue paper and unwrap what lay beneath. There would be time for that later, if he could manage to arrange things to his liking. In the end, she would always come back to him. She couldn't help herself. All he had to do is bide his time and wait.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summerseve, the last ball of the winter social season. Verity gets up to some very bad behavior.

Verity spent the last day of the season at a Corvali tea with her newest acquaintances, talking circles around trifling matters, trying to eke out some worthwhile gossip. The outing devoured most of her afternoon hours and left her with barely enough time to prepare for the grand Summerseve ball. She had dismissed the maids to go home to their families, and Petra was off on one of her mysterious errands, the sort that could easily last all night, and she was alone in her room. There was very little time to enjoy the peace, since she had to put herself in order in time for the ball. There would be nasty rumors if she arrived late, or in less than flawless form.

Her mind buzzing with these and many other thoughts, she was halfway through unbuttoning her day bodice before she noticed that she wasn't alone.

Hyperion was sitting in a plush armchair by the fire, leafing idly through one of her books.

"Please don't stop on my account," he said.

Verity scowled. "I haven't the time for this. I have to get ready for the spring ball."

"I can see that," said Hyperion, setting the book down and standing up.

Verity turned her back on him with a soft swish of her taffeta skirts and returned to unclasping her heavy jacket. It was a small perversity of modern fashion that she must spend the warm days of late spring shrouded and laced up to the neck, but when evening came she was permitted to shed her coat for a lower neckline. When the evening winds began to bite, her arms and neck would be exposed to their sting. But before she could reach that stage, she had to strip off the linen chemise that protected the costly taffeta from the damage of her own skin.

"Is this a guarantee of how much skin you'll be exposing all night?" asked Hyperion, once again standing too near at her back.

"Not quite," said Verity, straightening the liner of her corset matter-of-factly.

"Because that satin thing you were wearing the other night..."

Her exasperation took over from her and she spun around to face him. "You could just wait and see my gown at the same time as everyone else will," she said.

This was a mistake. As soon as they were face to face, Hyperion closed the distance between them faster than lightning, and in a moment his hands were on her neck and her waist, drawing her in despite herself. She twined her arms around him as he tipped her face up and kissed her soundly.

Skimming her neck with his lips, he paused at her ear to whisper, "I have no prior obligations tonight."

Verity felt a chill of anticipation creep up her spine. "Don't make promises unless you intend to keep them," she said.

"I never have," said Hyperion.

It was true, she was forced to concede.

"I promised I would undress you down to the last stitch," he said, "and I intend to do exactly that tonight."

"Is that what your little display last week was foresaging?" asked Verity, the pieces clicking into place in her mind.

He shrugged. "I was just bored. These infernal dances last for hours, and any right-thinking man must find them terminally dull."

"You'll be pleased to hear that your son feels exactly the same way," said Verity.

Hyperion scowled. "I did not come here to talk about Jarrod."

"No," she said. "You came to deliver a threat or a promise, of undressing me at some point later tonight."

"Would you rather spend this time powdering your nose, Verity?" he asked.

"I do need to powder my nose at some point," she replied. "Rather, I need to put on my face, and straighten my hair, and arrange my jewelry and--"

"And your perfume and so on," he cut in. "Yes, I gathered that. I don't know why you fuss with all that. You look fine as you are."

"In my corset?" she asked, amused.

"You could walk out on the ballroom floor naked," he suggested.

"That would certainly set tongues to wagging," said Verity. "Not the impression I wished to form, however, on concluding my very first social season in Starfall City. A Crown Princess, or so I hear, must be conscientious of her reputation, and of reflecting well on her husband and her family."

"Believe me, Verity," said Hyperion, "anything you do tonight can only elevate Jarrod's reputation from the midden where it currently resides."

"I will keep that in mind," she replied.

He released her, letting his hand linger warmly at her waist only a short moment longer. "I will see you later tonight," he said, before departing for the hidden doorway that she'd already learned to recognize.

Just before the door clicked shut behind him, she said, "Don't be late."

* * *

She saw almost nothing of him all evening. It was a relief, honestly. Even in his absence she could feel his words niggling in the back of her mind, and thoughts of him would return to her, unbidden, at every idle moment. Having his eyes on her on top of it all would have been too much strain for her to handle. Already she felt as though her skin were on too tight, and had to fight herself to be sensible, and remind herself that it was only the pull of her stays that made her gasp for breath.

It was an interminable evening. At least she could be secure in the knowledge that she looked every bit as glamorous as Petra and half-a-dozen of her young trainees could make her. The green taffeta suited her perfectly in color. Heads swiveled in her direction when she entered the dining hall, and even an envious Lady Roxana had to admit that the Crown Princess was positively glowing. Of course, being Roxana, she _also_ had to slip in a snide, under-handed remark, which she expected to fly over the Princess's head. Her look of disgruntlement and shock was quite satisfying when Verity deflected her speculation in her sweetest, most earnest tone.

Roxana's malicious insinuations guttered out, however briefly, and Verity tasted a short moment of triumph when Gisette caught her eye and smiled slyly. Perhaps Gisette's approval was something she ought rather to be ashamed of than proud, but at Revaire's royal court _needs must_ took precedence over the girl her sister had believed she would grow up to be. Constance was many miles away and years in the past, after all. Roxana, Heloise and the others were in the here and now. Their petty intrigues distracted her through the Summerseve feast and the fireworks that followed, until the doors to the ballroom were thrown open and the musicians struck the first notes of a dance.

Verity had even better reason than usual to want to avoid the dancing tonight. Young lovers would be using the last ball of the season for either joyous unions or tearful partings, and as she had neither to boast, and her feet were already quite sore, she would much prefer to take her shoes off and retire for the evening.

At least, that was what she confided to Gisette, early in the evening. Gisette laughed lightly and took it upon herself to coax a dance or two out of her _dear_ sister, but by now they knew each other well enough that she had to understand Verity would much rather be in her room with a good book. She spoke of it warmly enough that by the time she managed to extricate herself and retire, she had almost begun to believe her own -- admittedly rather plausible -- lie.

Petra had left everything ready for her, and when she returned to her guest room Verity immediately sat down at her vanity table with a deep sigh. She would have liked to pop her dancing shoes off first and foremost, but she wasn't certain whether the acrobatics required to reach her feet might be too much for the steel boning of her stays to withstand. She contented herself with safely stowing away her jewelry, first. All for the best, since the Queen had not so subtly suggested that the spruce green gown would be enlivened and offset by her carnelian necklace. It was very pretty, and the effect was startling, but the sight of it always put the King in a temper. She would prefer to have it off her neck before he came into her room.

It was the first conscious thought she had of him since he'd left her, earlier that evening.

Once he had staked out his territory in her mind, there was no getting rid of him. It was part of what she found so irritating about him, but also quite certainly part of why she could never seem to do the sensible thing and forget all about him. She was a foolish girl, and she would do much better to set him out of her mind, but she began to fear that to do such was entirely out of her powers.

Verity pulled off her silk gloves and dropped them on the vanity, then got up and crossed the room. On the table by the banked fire a silver tray had been set out, gracefully arranged with a crystal decanter and two matching glasses. She poured herself a modest helping and swished back across the room to the dressing table, taking a slow sip before settling down to dress her hair.

"Is there another one of those for me?"

Had he waited for her to turn her back before she entered? She ought to have checked the hidden door for peepholes when first she learned of it.

Without turning around, Verity said, "The bottle is full. If you want a drink, you can pour it yourself."

"Quite right," said Hyperion. "You're not a maid, and it's beneath the dignity of a Princess of Revaire to serve drinks."

"Tea, perhaps," she offered.

"I loathe tea," he said.

Somehow, she wasn't surprised.

He picked up the decanter and weighed it in his hands before pouring out a second glass. Verity pretended not to watch him while she deconstructed her coiffure.

"There must be a bottle of brandy in every room in the building," she said, as she pulled out another comb.

He elected to ignore her remark and said, "Be careful taking that monstrous thing apart. You wouldn't want to catch your hair on all those hooks and things."

"I've been dressing my hair for quite some time," said Verity. "I know how to take care of it."

"Good," said Hyperion. "It would be a shame if it were damaged. It's rather striking. Your most striking feature, I think."

"I thought you liked my hips," she replied, before she could think better of it.

Hyperion smiled thinly. "I like several parts of you. I'd like them better if I could _see_ them, though. Now, can you be a good girl, or will you oblige me to come hunt you down so I can rip open every lace and fastening?"

Her breath hitched and she felt her pulse jump as though her heart had arrested for just a moment. She set down her handful of pins very carefully in the bowl that had been made ready for them, next to her box of combs. Very carefully, she took out her earrings and put them away. Hyperion stood and watched her do this, perfectly still and somehow still radiating impatience in every line of his stance. She thought he was would stalk up to her, pull her body against his and devour her, he looked so like a predator just escaped from his cage.

Instead he brushed his fingertips over her cheek, catching an errant lock of her hair and twining it around one finger. Tucking it gently behind her ear, he sank his fingers into her hair and tipped her head back, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her mouth. Her spine turned to rubber, then liquid, and a thrill of warmth crept from her middle down all her limbs. She leaned into him, and he caught an arm around her waist, warm and solid.

"Now turn around," he murmured softly into her hair, "and let me at those clasps and things."

Verity tried not to show how unsteady she already was when she pushed away from him and offered him her back. Hyperion, however, was already single-mindedly focused on solving the puzzle of her bodice's fastenings.

"How many more layers like this one have you got on?" he asked, when finally he had cracked open the crinkling silk shell and shed it to the floor.

Verity counted quickly on her fingers. "Three or so, I think."

"Amazing," he said. "It's a good job the neckline is so low, or I might have gotten bored before I reached the prize at the center of the rat maze."

"Imagine how bored _I_ get," said Verity, "having to be laced into such gowns twice daily."

But he had lost interest in the subject, and was now exploring her shoulders, her neck, her collarbone, and those planes of her back that peeked out of the low back line of her best evening corset. The light touch of his long fingers drew a trail of sparks over her skin, and when he kissed her neck, the heat hurtled down her whole body like a boulder rolling off a sharp cliff. He laughed when he noticed his effect on her, tracing the imaginary line of his kisses with his thumb.

"No sense in stopping halfway through," he said. "We won't get another chance like this soon."

Verity resisted the urge to ask why not. Whatever plans were waiting in the wings would have to wait until daylight. She was too wound up to care about the future, anyway, and she wouldn't chance any subject of conversation that would distract him from his delicate task.

"Do you really need a second skirt under your skirt?" he asked sternly. "Surely the weather isn't that cold, on a fine spring evening."

"It's a pettycoat," she said, though she was sure he knew as much perfectly well. "And yes, I need one. I wear them year-round. In the winter, I wear two."

"What a great lot of bother," he said.

"Will you be this mulish about my stockings and corset, too?" asked Verity.

"No, I like corsets," he said. "They're great fun to unravel. Though yours, Verity, are entirely the wrong shape for your body." And her ran his hand down her flank, as though to emphasize his point.

"Take it off, then," she said. "It'll be a great relief to us both. I'd do it myself, but I can't quite reach the laces."

"No such problem on my end," he promised, and made good on it quickly enough, his fingers dancing over the column of criss-crossed ribbons.

Underneath her corset was only a light shift of the thinnest, finest linen, even flimsier tonight than usual, given the low neckline she had indulged in for the occasion. At the shoulders it was held together by a pair of very narrow satin ribbons. She'd taken the first opportunity to kick off her dancing slippers, of course. For which Petra would undoubtedly scold her the next morning when she discovered the mess, in her silent, judgmental way. Of course, she would have a great deal more to pass judgment on than shoes that had not been put away properly.

Or so Verity hoped. By this point of the evening, she was more than a little frustrated.

"Is all this ribbon and lace really necessary, for a garment that no one is meant to see?" asked Hyperion, exploring the lace edging of her shift with quick, flitting fingers.

Verity turned around to face him. "I see them," she said. "That's reason enough for them to be pretty, as far as I'm concerned."

He tugged at the ribbon on her shoulder, not quite pulling it off. "Quite reasonable," he said, "but still not what I came here to see."

Verity crossed her arms over her chest, at which he could only frown.

"What is it now?" he demanded to know.

"Did you come here to spectate only?" she asked. "Because if not, you're distinctly overdressed for the occasion."

A sly smile spread slowly on Hyperion's face. He jutted his chin at the turned down bed. "Sit down," he said.

Feeling a flutter of nerves deep in her stomach, Verity turned her back on him and did as he asked. She half expected him to grab her from behind, as he was so fond of doing, but he did nothing of the sort. Nothing, until she reached the bed and plopped down on it, sinking into the soft feather mattress.

He was still standing where she'd left him, watching her every move.

"Do you know," said Verity, irritated, "how unnerving it is when you do that?"

"Yes," said Hyperion. "Of course I do."

He stalked up to her, towering over the bed, glaring down at her with the expression she was by now so familiar with. Mingled desire, frustration and anger. The latter, she had begun to think, was simply a permanent fixture of his mood. She leaned back, resting her hands on the coverlet, and gazed up at him, waiting. She didn't have to wait long. He leaned down, and hooked his hand under her knee, pulling her leg up to hold it by the ankle. With his free hand, he rolled down her stocking, the fine silk whispering against her skin. Suddenly Verity was all too glad that she hadn't taken them off herself. When he'd pulled off the whole thing, he tossed it over his shoulder with theatrical carelessness, and turned his head to press a small kiss to her ankle.

Verity gasped.

Hyperion laughed, and slid his hand back down her leg.

"Don't taunt me," said Verity. "It's cruel."

"And cruelty, of course, would be entirely uncharacteristic of me," said Hyperion.

"You are still wearing too much clothing, and I don't like it," said Verity.

"And I still want to see you in your bare skin, Verity," he replied. "Which I mean to do. Right now."

His fingers climbed up her leg, pulling the hem of her shift up, bit by bit. Verity shifted backwards on the bed, drawing her other leg back. He frowned, but followed her all the same, kneeling down in the spot she had just vacated. She leaned forward and braced a hand on his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin under his shirt, and reaching up to wrap her other hand behind his neck, pulled him down to her so she could kiss him. He let her draw him in and wrap her arms around his neck, but pulled back from her kiss to press his mouth to the seam of her neck.

"You smell--" he murmured, close against her skin, his hot breath making her shiver.

As he slowly trailed his mouth down her neck and over her collarbone, she dragged her fingers down his back, catching at the fabric of his shirt to pull it loose. He was too distracted to notice at first, busily pulling down the collar of her shift to kiss a hot, wet path down to her breasts. When she gasped and arched against him, digging her fingertips into his back, he laughed and pulled away. Grabbing both her hands by the wrist, he wrenched them over her head, pinning them effortlessly, one-handed.

"I did not give you permission to do that, Verity," he said, trying and failing to maintain a stern face. "Though I appreciate the initiative, certainly."

Verity whimpered and arched her back.

"You sound so sweet when you're needy," he said.

"What do you want?" she asked, panting.

"Admit that you need me," he said.

"Only as much as you need me."

"I do need you," he said, "but I need you naked. I've been wondering all night whether your breasts are really as lush as those ridiculous dresses of yours make them look. Are they a clever sartorial lie? Only one way to find out."

He released her pinned wrists, then, and raked up her shift with both hands. She tilted up her hips, and wriggled obligingly, trying to keep him from tearing off the obstructing fabric that so offended him.

"Try to restrain yourself from tearing my clothes," she said, "however readily replaceable they are."

"I think I'd rather restrain you," said Hyperion. "What would you do, Verity, if I tied your wrists to those bedposts over there?"

The idea made a white fuzz blank out her mind, like cotton wool. She couldn't tell whether she liked it or not. She didn't know what sound or expression she made, but whatever it was seemed to please him.

"Unfortunately, I don't happen to have any rope with me," he said, pulling off her shift and tossing it aside, "this time."

"I can never tell whether you mean the things you say as threats or promises," said Verity.

"There's no difference between the two," said Hyperion. "But since you have been so obliging, I might feel inclined to grant your wish."

And he tore off his shirt with the same kind of violence he had applied to her own clothing. Underneath it, he was imperfect. Just as straight-backed and broad-shouldered as he had been clothed, but his skin was marked with scars, at least half a dozen small ones, and one large, ugly one crawling diagonally across his ribs. Evidence of his humanity, and his falling short of the ideal of the warrior king that he worked so hard to project. But imperfections or not, there was still something about him, the sight of him, that made her breath catch, just for a moment.

Hyperion, however, had no intention of letting her stare at him to her heart's content. He ran his hands over her hips and up her sides to palm her breasts. He lowered his head to skim his mouth over her skin, and Verity immediately felt a spark of fire jump through her.

"This is what I've been waiting for," he whispered, his breath grazing her skin.

She knew then that he really had spent as much time as he had inadvertently admitted to thinking about her breasts, at least if the amount of attention he paid them was any indication. Left undisturbed, he would probably keep fondling and kissing them for hours, only jolting her to keen awareness when his thumb brushed against her nipple. Fortunately his preoccupation left her free to run her hands over the bare skin of his back and arms, to thread her fingers through his hair, to listen for his muffled groans.

Finally she wrapped both her legs around him, and he buried his answering moan in the crease of her chest. His breath tickled, and she had to fight down a giggle, but the giggle turned to a yelp when he turned his head and bit her lightly.

When she looked down at him, Hyperion was smiling smugly.

"Ow," said Verity.

"It can't have hurt that much," he said.

"Don't do it again, please," said Verity.

"Oh, but it's so hard to resist," he said, bracing himself up on one arm, reaching down with the other to stroke her face. "When you're so sweet." He pressed his face into her neck, inhaling deeply. "You smell sweet, like cinnamon. And you taste--" he licked a wide path from her collarbone up her neck to just behind her ear, humming deep in his throat. "You taste like caramel."

If she had her wits about her, Verity would have scoffed. As it was, she was rather too distracted.

"Would you get on with it?" she demanded, hating how her voice tapered into a soft, pleading whine.

Hyperion clicked his tongue. "Young people are so impatient."

"You can quite easily find for yourself how _impatient_ I am," said Verity.

He hummed thoughtfully, and did just that, grazing his fingertips up her thigh. She didn't need to check to know how wet she was, and she didn't need to look at him to know that he was wearing that same smug smile. He dipped a finger inside her, crooking it until she gasped. When he retreated Verity was ready to scream with frustration, but he kept his eyes fixed on her as he brought his hand to his mouth and licked it clean.

"Yes, I think that will do," he said thoughtfully.

Before she could protest he got up and started to strip off his remaining clothing with startling efficiency. Verity propped herself up on her elbows and pulled herself further back onto the bed, shunting aside the bunched coverlet. Not that she didn't watch his every movement, because she did, but was suddenly too conscious of her own bare skin to bear doing so openly. Her gaze traveled down his body and then drifted away before she dragged it back up to his face.

His eyes were wide and dark with lust.

"Actually," he answered to some unasked question, "this is exactly what I had in mind."

When she reached up to touch him he pinned her hands above her head again, but not for long. Even he couldn't reach to pin her with one hand and still have another hand free for everything else he wanted out of her. He caught her leg around the ankle and propped it up on his shoulder, holding it in place while he lazily stroked himself. For Verity it was a position of heightened anxiety and thrumming nerves, and she could hardly bear it.

"What are you waiting for?" she snapped. "If you're not ready--"

He cut her off viciously before she could even get started. "If _readiness_ were the problem, Verity, I'd find a better use for that smart mouth of yours than talking."

He was on her before she could have time to congratulate herself on the success of her provocation. Quick as a flash flood, he no longer had any interest in teasing or playing games. He pushed into her brutally hard and fast and she cried out with the suddenness of it, balling her hands in the bed sheets.

"Oh, God, yes!"

"No gods in the bedroom," he said, his lips twisting into a smile, "not if I can help it. And no one to overhear us, so no reason to be quiet. I want to hear you cry out and moan and _scream_ my name, Verity. Don't disappoint me."

But she could hardly think enough to form words, though she certainly didn't hold back her moans, for once. Her ragged voice broke on the words out of her mouth when she arched her back to meet his thrusts. For a moment she swore she could see spots dancing in front of her eyes.

"What was that, Verity?" he asked. "I can't hear you when you mumble like that. Stop biting your lip, this is no time to hold back."

She hadn't realized that she had her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and she'd certainly no intention of holding back.

Hyperion tilted his head as though listening and said, "Deeper? Yes. That's easily managed."

A soft whine escaped her mouth when he pulled out, but it was only long enough to fold her unresisting legs and push her knees up to her chest.

"I do so hate to hide your lovely breasts, Verity," he said, "but this should get us both closer to where we want to be."

Her muscles burned, and his weight pressed her deeper into the feather bed, her fingers slowly cramping from the strength of her grip on the sheets. Close and warm against her, he pushed in deeper and slower than before, leaning close until his breath brushed her cheek.

"Let go," he said, over and over. "I want to see you fall apart. I want to hear you scream."

There was no scream in her, but she gathered all the breath she had left and panted out a single word. " _Close_."

Hyperion laughed roughly, breathlessly, and shifted his great bulk just enough to slip a hand at the point of contact between them. Verity closed her eyes just before she felt the crack of lightning from his rough fingers race down every nerve in her body, right down to her fingertips and toes. She didn't know what she cried out at that moment, only that it left her bonelessly soft and brittle, with nothing but airless gasps left in her mouth.

Still he wasn't done, and she wrapped her arms and legs around him, hooking her heels behind his knees and her fingernails into the skin of his back, holding on while he drove himself relentlessly over the edge. Her skin burned where he touched her, but her strength wouldn't hold for anything but soft, soundless gasps. She became acutely conscious of the soreness of her muscles and the heavy smell of musk and sweat in the air, and of her hair clinging damply to her face. Her fingers felt nerveless, but she dug them deeper into his back, rewarded by the sound of his rasping laugh.

"Little vixen," he gasped, pressing his mouth to her ear. "Digging your little claws into me again?"

"Should I be gentle?" she asked.

"Never."

She raked her nails down his back and he shuddered and stilled, roiled by breathlessness. The leaden bulk of his body, spent and exhausted, pinned her to the bed until he shifted and slid to one side. He burrowed his face into the crook of her neck and pulled her against him, one arm wrapped loosely around her waist.

"Mmm, Verity," he murmured. "Sweet cinnamon on your skin. How has the scent not yet faded?"

Verity ventured to rest her head and let her eyes drift shut, sneaking her hand to press against his chest. He didn't seem to notice, or else didn't mind, such an oddly familiar gesture. He was busy breathing in the scent of her hair.

"Are you satisfied?" he asked, his voice such a low mumble that she could hardly hear it.

"I'm going to wake up so sore tomorrow," said Verity.

But when she listened for his breath she realized that Hyperion was already asleep. It was passing strange to have him naked and sleeping, peacefully even, in her bed. Far and away stranger than any number of his bold touches and hard kisses. There was something so impossibly _ordinary_ about it, when there should be nothing ordinary about him, about them and their liaison. She kept still and listened to his sleepy breathing for a short while longer, and then finally disentangled her body from his, wrapping herself in a bedcoat against the chilly air.

Her sweat and his kisses had chilled and dried on her skin, and Verity had no patience for drawing water to wash them away. Instead she fetched her combs and sat down to disentangle some of the worst knots in her hair. Once she was more or less content with her efforts, she retrieved her unfinished brandy and sat in front of the fireplace, unlit though it was. She sipped slowly and let the warmth of the liquor and the quiet of the night lull her until she lost track of the hour.

The next morning, Verity woke up to find herself dressed in a nightshirt and tucked securely into bed. While she tried in vain to orient herself, a series of clinks and taps announced the arrival of Petra, impassively carrying a tray of morning tea. She poured out two cups and sweetened them generously. Verity tamped down on the urge to turn over and see whether there was a second sleeping body in bed next to her. It was a foolish impulse. Of course there wasn't. Petra was just being her usual, overly familiar self, pouring tea for herself and her mistress in the same breath.

"Good morning, milady," said Petra, once she had a complete and perfect cup of tea to place in her hands.

"Good morning," said Verity. "Is it still morning?"

"It's late," said Petra, "but not quite noon. Most of the court is still abed."

Verity thought this through. "And the family?"

"The Crown Prince is sleeping like a lug and likely to keep on doing the same," said Petra, "for at least an hour or two more. No need for concern there. The Princess is unaccounted for, and may not be on the palace grounds. Suspicious, but nothing we can act upon at present. Queen Violetta is awake, but not alert. She won't present a problem for an hour or so yet, not until she's put her face on."

"That's not quite everyone," Verity pointed out.

"I am informed by reliable sources," said Petra crisply, "that His Majesty left on an early morning ride."

Verity raised an eyebrow and blew on her tea to cool it. "Really."

"Less reliable sources," Petra went on, "insist the ride was of a less athletic and more urgent nature."

"Strange things are afoot," said Verity.

"Perhaps," replied Petra in her best and most cryptic manner.

"Interesting," said Verity. "But, at the moment, not as interesting as breakfast."

"The maid should be up with fresh bread from this morning's baking," said Petra, "any moment now."

"You're a Godsend, Petra," said Verity. "Have I told you that, lately?"


End file.
